Enough is Enough!
A crack in the ant farm discombobulates the matrix, now tilted, now losing speed.
Cyclops sits at the tip of a chanting pinecone, his archaic inner eye scratched in the emergency.
A local physician, loyal to the mountain’s daughter, signs a prescription in cursive font elegant as a Hellenistic vase.
Enough is enough!
Prepare the shapeshifting wand! Now become a ladder.
Hey Freakshow/Peepshow! Now climb yourself down
into the ruins & rubble of the elementary school.
Tie your shoelaces to a ball & chain.
Throw yourself into the pit of echoes.
Into the echoes of a child’s musical instrument!
Hey Freakshow/Peepshow! Now double-check the iron door,
locked & bolted, shielding facsimiles of your heart.
As you fine-tune trajectories & delivery times.
Elsewhere prepare the shapeshifting wand! Now become a falling star.
A falling star remembers Noah gazing into a deep azure sky.
A falling star remembers flash-floods of swirling froth & foam
in diagonal rivers of Gorgon-like rain.
A falling star remembers uncertainty is a certainty & pencils once broken
can never be forgotten.
Prepare the shapeshifting wand! Now become a bird of prey.
Howling into spinal columns like renegade DNA.
Today is the day of Renegade Beauty!
A day Freakshow/Peepshow never imagined!
Nemesis engraved upon the karmic wheel.
Hubris returning in flight aimed like a boomerang.
Shadow wide as the wings of a pterodyctal.
Today is the day of Renegade Beauty!
A day to shriek! To thrash antediluvian wings!
Today the ill-gained cosmetics you pocketed
transform into supernatural dust to reveal the truth.
Hey Freakshow/Peepshow! You cannot scrub it away.
The vimani pilot saw your portrait on the wall & sailed away
unable to explain.
A snake shed his skin of transparent parchment
coiled in the crown of your hair
as you walk the red carpet
Light flares & flashes like an aura, quiet as a bowl of milk,
bright as a tiny sun as the tadpole-comet seeds an egg,
your Conception gifted with an expiry date.
Inhale the Miracle of a round-the-clock oasis. Gather treasures to give away.
Did the ambulance siren drown out The Shroud of Turin’s voice?
Like milk gone bad, or snakeskin flaking in the milk,
you have forsaken Songs of Innocence.
The ever perambulatory William Blake strolls upon a bridge
rising above stones carved in runes.
Oblivious to the overnight pop-up museum’s monumental retrospective.
Heralded as ‘a sensational exhibition’ by the CEO of the World’s Largest Hole.
William Blake condemns, exalts & ecstatic rolls a hoop of ancient consciousness,
rolls up his sleeves & washes his ears, begins to intercede in ruined beauty.
Seeding Songs of Innocence at the periphery of the vista.
Where beggers beg at the gates of looming institutions.
& Who of us can say he graduated from a pine tree?
& Who of us can say she graduated from a field of clover?
Wings in the centre of language blaze ivory-fire
(Mr. Blake my mother said you would like this bread).
Songbirds line the bridge, one by one, on the quartz railing.
Good morning Mr. Blake they sing as if a lullaby.
In the Temple of Binoculars one wild bull pulls a chain collapsing pillars,
perpindicular & askew.
Tin foil rhinoceros & lions cast shadows.
Cyclops, catching his breath beneath slabs of marble,
warning of the mind & psyche collectively disintegrating.
Who & Where & When?
Little Bo Peep, who rhymes with sheep, has lost her rights to the common grazing grounds.
The ever perambulatory William Blake brings her an apple & a printed sheaf.
He will decode the cumbersome legalese.
And as for what to undertake they will agree in solidarity.
Freakshow/Peepshow stirs a plastic spoon. Stomps in boots across the floor.
Opens the bathroom cabinet testing powders, creams & fragrant sprays.
Decides he looks like Beethoven on a motorcycle or maybe a Hollywood star.
The family crouches behind a half-demolished wall cornered on three sides.
If they return the instant coffee will be gone.
Neolithic hunting parties, still dressed for the hunt, materialize in the aether,
alive in stone, in bone broth & sound,
asleep for eons in the depths of a pulsating chamber.
Drink, of the Original Thought, lashing vines & knotting veins.
Drink, of the First Principle, inscribing lengths of wand-like wood.
Prepare the shapeshifting wand! Now become a whirlwind.
No taller than a heron, speaking in shamanic fits
of rage & grief.
Ash gone white in shamanic fits of shame & disbelief.
& Chanting the ravens’ lucid dreamtime deeply into the cauldron.
& Swirling blood-red poetry casting spells of haunted sound.
What was that? I don’t know. Did you see the hummingbird?
In your psychic prison, Prisoner Zero-Zero Freakshow/Peepshow,
the poison of your fingertips touches the graveyard of your face.
Your silhouette staining The Garden Walls of Babylon shall fade
as you become Dorian Gray.
& Elsewhere (for there is, always & forever, elsewhere)
your silhouette staining The Garden Wall of Golgotha shall fade
as you manipulate a pinhole camera. As you sip sucrose-fructose.
As you recalibrate the diabolical.
Vanish! Banished!
Enough is enough!
A crack in the ant farm discombobulates the matrix, now tilted, now losing speed.
Cyclops sits at the tip of a chanting pinecone, his archaic inner eye scratched in the crisis.
A local physician, loyal to the mountain’s daughter, signs a prescription in cursive font elegant as a Hellenistic vase.
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